


And the Ice will Melt Away

by ohmytheon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:14:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmytheon/pseuds/ohmytheon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a possibility that Sansa could be happy with her match in the Smalljon Umber; and that both terrifies her and makes her smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sansa/happiness is my true OTP, let's be real.

She picked at her hair nervously, unable to stop herself, though she knew that he wouldn’t care about her hair. He didn’t care about any of that. One time, just a moment before he’d arrived at Winterfell, she’d tripped on a bit of ice and fallen onto the ground. When she’d picked herself up with Jeyne Poole’s help, she’d had dirt on her dress and her hair had come undone; of course he’d appeared in front of her right then, but he’d just smiled and asked if she was alright, never once commenting on her appearance. She liked that about him. He never picked at her, never seemed to want her to improve, was always perfectly content with how she acted and looked.

Of course she was nervous though. He was of the North, strong, rugged yet handsome, and older than her as well. She had commented that she was worried that she was too much of a Southerner for him, but he’d shaken his head and told her, _“If anything, I am too Southerner for you. The Starks have winter in their bones, and you have it more than most, perhaps from your time in the South.”_

If she could pinpoint the exact moment when she realized that she felt strongly for him, it would have been then.

“You know, if you keep picking at your hair, it’s just going to fall out,” Arya drawled from behind.

Sansa turned around to shoot her younger sister a glare, but the other girl just grinned at her. It was a hollow jest, one meant to bring Sansa out of her worrisome daydreams, and it did the trick. She harrumphed and looked back to her reflection. “At least I have hair to pick at,” she replied, making herself sound as snotty as possible. “Your hair is still growing into a mess, thanks to all the times you cut it.”

At this her sister laughed. There was a smacking sound on the floor, letting Sansa know that her sister had jumped to her feet, and then she felt arms wrap around her and saw her sister’s face in the mirror, her sharp chin on Sansa’s shoulder. “You do not need to worry so much. He always goes on about how you’re the most gorgeous girl in Westeros.” When Arya pulled away, Sansa turned in her chair to look as her sister stood with an open expression on her face and her palms up in the air. She then went on in an absurdly deep voice: “ _’I’ve been everywhere with His Grace, fighting battles all throughout Westeros, but I’ve never seen a girl shine so brightly as Sansa Stark. She’s prettier than that first spring snow.’_ ”

“Arya!” Sansa proclaimed with a gasp, blush tinting her cheeks. “Stop it. He does not say things like that.”

“Does too,” Arya insisted, that sneaky grin back on her face. “It’s even worse when the others convince him to drink. Just can’t stop going on and on about you. Rather annoying really. Dacey always goads him into it, just because she knows it peeves the other men.”

Sansa shook her head. “You are ridiculous. You all are.”

“Of course _he_ is,” Arya replied, shrugging her shoulders. “He’s in love.”

The way she said the words made it sound like she thought being in love was a foreign concept, something she couldn’t possibly imagine feeling. Sansa’s heart leapt for so many reasons: one) because she was hopeful; two) because she was scared; and three) because she was worried for her little sister. What did either of them really know of being in love? She had once thought that she loved Joffrey and that he had loved her, but that had all been a lie and a disgusting one at that. And then there had been her embarrassing feelings towards Ser Loras Tyrell and… Well, she had known nothing.

And Arya – brooding, grinning, teasing, light, dark, evasive Arya – there were times when Sansa feared that Arya would never love. Oh, she loved her family. Years and tragedies had passed between them, both of them had died in one way or another, but the second they had been returned to each other, they had loved each other fiercely. Arya was more protective of her than many of the knights that were supposed to protect her were. When Robb had begun suggesting suitors for Sansa, he’d been gentle about it, letting her know that she would have a hand in choosing as well. Arya had prowled about them all like a wolf, nipping at them with words and glares, making sure that they would be good to her big sister, that were proper scared of what might happen should they fall short or hurt Sansa in some way. Her little sister had looked at each suitor with disdain, with distrust, and it was part of the reason why Robb had not brought up the idea of a suitor to Arya. Both Robb and Sansa had thought it…ill.

Jon Umber, otherwise known as The Smalljon, was the only one to pass Arya’s inspection, but she still remained suspicious as ever.

There was a knock on the door that startled both Sansa and Arya out of their thoughts. Sansa tried to ignore the way Arya gripped her sword and listened as a timid voice called, “M’lady, Lord Umber has just arrived at the gates.”

“I will be right there,” Sansa replied. She gripped the skirts of her dress and stood up, her stomach tying itself in knots all over again.

Arya snorted. “Lord Umber.”

Sansa shot a look at her sister, who merely shrugged her shoulders again. The dark-haired girl held out her arm, much like a knight would, and Sansa grasped onto it. As they walked out of the room, she thought of all the times she would walk around King’s Landing like this with a gold cloak or a knight of the Kingsguard. It was always so disconcerting, having to depend on protection and being watched over by the same men that smacked her or beat her on Joffrey’s commands. She glanced at Arya as they walked. If her sister had known that, if Sansa had told her or anyone here of that… She had no doubt that her sister would have tried to kill them all. But most were long dead anyways or forgotten. The Smalljon had asked her only once of her time in King’s Landing, but she had pressed her lips together and shook her head, and he had not asked of it since.

When they reached the doors of the Hall, they came to a stop. Arya pulled her arm away and gave a little bow. “I’ll leave you to your lord, my lady.”

Sansa just laughed and swatted at her sister, who dodged her hand deftly. Arya stood up straight, a smile on her face, turned on her [heels](http://ohmytheon.tumblr.com/post/48707748623/and-the-ice-will-melt-away-sansa-x-the-smalljon), and walked towards the doors leading outside. No doubt she was going to the forge, but Sansa continued the pretence that she didn’t know these things. Her eyes turned the door and she took a deep breath. She had no reason to be so nervous – she’d seen him many of times and their betrothal had only become a sure thing a month ago – but there was something about him that took her back every time she saw him.

Maybe it was because he was actually so kind to her that she was still startled. True knights were not supposed to exist. She’d learned that the hard way during her time in King’s Landing.

As she opened the door and stepped inside, she spotted her big brother Robb sitting in his chair. He’d been told that they needed to redo this room, to befit the King of the North, but he’d waved it away. All he’d wanted was to repair the damage done to Winterfell so that it looked as it always had. It had looked the same when Starks had ruled as kings in the past as when their father had been Lord of Winterfell, and so it would be the same now. Robb would’ve found the Great Hall in the Red Keep too lavish and unnecessary.

Standing before him was Jon "Smalljon" Umber. He was easy to spot in a crowd, taller than most, broad in the shoulders, with shaggy brown hair that hung in his eyes. He was even easier to hear, his laughter ringing in the air over everyone else’s. Despite all he had seen and lost, he was still able to laugh. She dropped her eyes to the ground, evening her breathing, as she walked towards them.

Robb caught sight of her first, Jon having his back to her. “I’ve some things to attend to, so you have your leave, my lord.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Robb stood up, clasped the Smalljon on the shoulder, and then brushed past him. He smiled at Sansa and then left the room.

She was only a few feet away when Jon urned around and noticed her in the room. He looked a little caught off guard, but a wide smile split onto his face. “You’re as quiet as a mouse, did you know that, my lady?” he told her, humor lacing ever word.

“Arya’s lessons on sneaking must be actually working,” Sansa said, trying to bite back a smile and keep a serious look on her face.

It was impossible to do when he suddenly stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her in the air and spinning her. She let out a squeal and then laughed, slipping her arms around his neck. One of her slippers fell off and hit the floor, but she could hardly care about that as they kissed. If there was one thing that she truly adored about this silly boy, it was that he was not afraid to show her any affection. Of course he kept a respectable air and distance from her when they were in public, but the moment they were alone, he was not hesitant to kiss her or hold her or tell her how he felt. It had been startling at first, but she’d found that she liked it.

He was so… He was so warm. She’d forgotten what warmth had felt like; she had been so cold for so long. By the time she had come back to Winterfell, safe and sound, she had been made of ice. All of the Stark children had changed in some way. Robb had become like Valyrian steel, like their father’s sword. Bran was like the weirwoods. Rickon had been turned wild and fierce like his own direwolf. And Arya had turned into fire. She had become ice, cold to the touch, pretty from a distance, sparkling in the light. But then perhaps the Smalljon had helped thaw her out, with each smile, laugh, joke, and kind word. She had not expected such warmth from anyone like him. His size and build made him very intimidating, but he was a good soul. There was a reason Robb had trusted him with his life.

“I thought you would not be able to come for another moon’s turn,” Sansa said. She was quite pleased that the case turned out to be otherwise, but she knew that there was a lot of work to be done. Many things were changing now that Robb was King in the North. “I had heard that you would be going to the Dreadfort to…settle some issues.”

Very gently, Jon set her back down on her feet and sat down on the bench behind him. He looked away from her, as if hiding from her, but she could tell that he was trying to make light of the situation. She wasn’t supposed to know some things that she did, and that only worried her more. “That was supposed to be the case, but I thought that seeing your face before I left would lighten the task.” He picked up her [shoe](http://ohmytheon.tumblr.com/post/48707748623/and-the-ice-will-melt-away-sansa-x-the-smalljon) and slid it onto her foot.

“Winterfell is very out of the way,” Sansa pointed out. “You must have left the Last Hearth early just to come here and you will have to ride twice as hard to get to the Dreadfort on time.”

“It was well worth the extra effort.” He gave her an almost mischievous look and added, “Besides, you know that I’m not really one for timeliness. That is much more your area.”

Her nerves rumbled inside of her, despite the smile she was wearing; and she reached out to touch his face, her fingers brushing against his beard. “You will be careful there, won’t you?”

She did not want to tell him of all the rumors she had heard about the Dreadfort and what he would be doing there. There had always been certain rumors about old customs being done there, but Robb tried to shield her from the worst of them, thinking she was too fragile. She wasn’t, and it irritated her sometimes to know that Robb kept things from her that could possibly affect her, but she knew that he only had her interests at heart. For the most part, everything she knew came from what Arya had overheard. It was Arya who would slip in unnoticed and listen to all of Robb’s concerns and Arya who would relay them back to her. The moment Arya had heard about the Smalljon going to the Dreadfort to take care of some sort of business for Robb, she had rushed immediately to Sansa to tell her.

He grasped her cold fingers and held them in his warm hands. “Of course,” he told her. “And as soon as I am done there, I will return here to you, my lady.”

“In a timely fashion.”

“Yes, in a timely fashion, just for you.”

“Or Arya will hunt you down and have your hide,” Sansa quipped.

Jon stood up and slid his arms around her again. He was so tall compared to her, reminding her distantly of the Hound, but he was so much warmer and kinder than the Hound. The young man was a true knight, a gallant knight that the songs she’d once sung were meant for. “Your sister need not worry so much,” he told her. “I do not plan on ever disappointing or hurting you in any way.”

Joffrey had once said something like that to her, a repulsive lie, but Sansa knew in her heart that Jon truly meant it.

 


	2. Stories and Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no plans on making a second part, but someone requested another Sansa/Smalljon fic, so I just made it a sequel to this one. It sucks because I had no direction. But here's Sansa/happiness, so that's all that matters, especially with whatever the hell the show is doing. Suck it, D&D.

Sansa learned a long time ago that there was no such thing as knights in shining armor. There would be no one to save her, no one to rescue her, no one to take her hand and away from the horrors she’d been forced to reckon with in King’s Landing, only herself. The knights in all those stories didn’t exist in truth; they were a figmant of imagination, something that she grew to resent after a time.

And yet, somehow, as if to give back to her for all that she had lost, a true knight had appeared in her life, meaning to prove her wrong with every warm smile and gentle touch. It had been a year since her wedding to Jon “Smalljon” Umber, but she still felt her heart leap whenever she connected eyes with her lord husband.

She could not believe her luck at times. Surely this was a dream and she would wake back in King’s Landing, alone and trapped, but she never did. Instead she woke to the sound of his quiet snores, his bearded face usually pressed against her bare shoulder. She always felt so giddy in the mornings when she woke before him, her heart heavy with relief and joy and her lips pressed together so she wouldn’t laugh. If he ever woke up before her, he was careful not to disturb her sleep or wake her. The one time he’d done that, she’d woke up so panicked that he’d sent her flowers all throughout the day to apologize, even though she’d insisted that he had nothing to apologize for.

Even now, as she walked through the Last Hearth where Jon was lord of the castle and she the lady, Sansa felt a sense of disbelief. This place had been ravaged too by the War of the Five Kings, but just as Winterfell had been rebuilt, so had this castle. She felt a certain kinship for the Last Hearth. It was smaller than Winterfell, but in many ways alike in its warmth and strength despite the cold.

Sansa pressed a hand against her slowly growing belly and sat down at the edge of the bed in their bedchambers. She felt very much like that too now. Cold on the outside, as her time in King’s Landing had forced her to be, and yet warmth blossomed inside of her, strong as ever. It terrified her though. What she wouldn’t give to have her mother here to help her through this or even Arya, however foreign the concept of bearing children was to her. She rarely ever felt alone in Last Hearth, as everyone was so open here, but in this she was sometimes on her own.

Jon stepped inside suddenly, running his hands through his thick, dark hair. He could not have been any different from Joffrey, both in looks and personality, the differences so striking that it still surprised her that they could both have existed in the same world. His brows were slightly furrowed, his eyes on the ground, and lips pressed in a thin line. He didn’t even seem to notice that she was in the room with him.

“Are you well, my lord?” Sansa asked carefully. She knew – ­ she _knew_ – ­ that she didn’t have to be wary around him, even if he was angry, as he would never do anything to hurt her, not in the ways that Joffrey had whenever he’d had a fit about something, but that still didn’t stop her from preparing the defenses. She felt slightly guilty over this, knowing that Jon was nothing like her first betrothed, but they were old habits that she refused to break at this point.

Jon’s eyes lit up when he spotted her sitting on the bed and his eyebrows shot up. He truly hadn’t realized that she was in the room. A rather abashed expression crossed his face. “Oh, I’m sorry for startling you.”

Sansa allowed a small smile to cross her face. Even with that expression on his face, like he’d done something wrong when she knew he hadn’t, her heart felt light with him looking at her. “I think I’m the one that startled you.”

His abashed expression took on a more sheepish look as a grin spread on his face. It didn’t fully reach his eyes, the worry and irritation still in them, but she knew that only the grin was for her. Something else was on his mind, perhaps something he didn’t want to tell her just yet. They’d been having some problems along the coast with Ironborn raids, as was usual, but that still didn’t make him any less frustrated with them.

She pat the bed next to her and he crossed the room to join her. He took one of her hands in his and then leaned down so that his head was level with her belly. “And how is my little one doing today?” he asked.

“Making mother restless, as usual,” Sansa sighed. Still, the smile remained on her face. “I’m surprised my feet do not hurt worse from all the walking I did today.”

“You be nice to your lovely mother,” Jon told the child growing in her belly. She let out a laugh. When he straightened back up, the smile reached his eyes a little more and he kissed her on the temple. “I’m sorry that I could not join you today. Something came up and I had to take care of it.”

“Ironborn?”

Jon quirked an eyebrow. “You’re better at this than I am, it seems.”

Sansa shook her head. “My father’s ward was of the Iron Islands. He liked to talk about them a lot. And without Arya around to sneak about on people, I had to make do with other ways to learn what I want.”

“You’re far more clever than me,” Jon said with a laugh. “Perhaps you should join me in council. I’m sure the people would greatly appreciate any input you might have.”

“Oh, stop,” Sansa told him, blush tinging her cheeks a bit. “I doubt anyone would want to listen to a lady prattle on. After all, what do women know of such things?”

“Plenty more than most of the men I’m stuck to deal with,” Jon pointed out. Despite what they were talking about, the smile on his face reached his eyes completely now. He always said that she managed to make him feel at ease even when he was stressed beyond belief. She’d learned how to smooth things down carefully years ago; she hadn’t known that it would be of use for such simple things. “Tomorrow, perhaps we could do something, go into town or whatnot. I heard a musician came into town the other night.”

Sansa leaned against him. “I would love that.”

Silence fell over them for a moment, but she didn’t mind. She simply closed her eyes and took in his solid presence, his comforting smell, the feel of his thumb rubbing circles on her hand. She still worried this was a dream. They spoke too easily with each other, the give and flow too comfortable to be real. He treated her too well. That was what made her so nervous at times, even though it was ridiculous to be worried because something was too good. Even though shame streaked through her whenever the thought came up, a tiny voice would wonder when he too would turn on her as Joffrey had, as they all had in the end.

“I do not know how I got so lucky with you,” the Smalljon suddenly said.

Sansa gave him a strange look in response. How could he possibly think such things? It was like he plucked the thoughts of her head and made them his own.

The small smile that he gave her was a little tired, but mostly it was relieved. “I did not know whether I would survive the war in the end. And when I did, I was grateful enough for that. To be given this chance with you, and now this” - ­­ he spread his large hand over her belly and a look of wonder came across his face ­­ - “I am not sure what I did to deserve all this.”

“What you did?” Sansa turned slightly so that she could take his face in her hands. “It is what you do every day. You are the best man that I have ever known. You made me dream again when I did not think it possible – ­­ when I did not know if I wanted to anymore.”

He actually turned a little red behind his beard and she almost laughed at that. He was such a tall and imposing­-looking man that it was a little amusing to see him blush like a child. “You flatter me far too much, my lady.”

“You do not give yourself enough credit,” Sansa insisted.

Jon closed the gap between them, kissing her with what felt like all the warmth in his soul. He pulled her towards him, not roughly, and she leaned into him as he threaded his fingers through her carefully done hair. She didn’t care about that, not as he kissed her. With his fingers in her hair and his thumbs on her cheeks, she felt as if she was the center of the world, at least of his.

Years ago, she had dreamed of being a queen. Being the lady of a simple lord had felt like a dishonor after that. But even if she was only the Lady of Last Hearth, he still somehow managed to make her feel like a queen with the way he was with her. Even then, none of that mattered. Being a queen didn’t matter, not when she had true happiness, something she’d forced herself to believe didn’t exist.

It appeared as if some of those stories from her childhood had been true after all. It had only taken time and strength to find them, in the Smalljon, in herself, and in the life they built together.


End file.
